Escape
by NothingButAMemory
Summary: It was a split second descision: jump and drown or stay and get beaten to death.


Author's Note: Hm… I haven't posted anything in a while, and, while working on the next chapter of 'Disappear', I randomly found this somewhere. I wrote it… um… at the beginning of the school year, I think. Yeah, it was an assignment for English: rewrite the first chapter of great expectations in the convict's point of view. It doesn't have to follow the story line (since we'd only read the first chapter, that made sense), and the only limits were that the convict had to meet Pip and it could only be three pages long. So it's not my fault it's so short; trust me, I _really _wanted to write more of it.

Anyway, I just gotta say that I don't really like Dickens; it's just something to post. Enjoy.

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I know there must have been shouting – and a lot of it, might I add – but I could hear naught at that particular moment. All I knew at the time was that I was standing on the railing of a Hulk just out of the reach of crashing, deadly waves. When I finally regained my senses, the pounding footsteps of the guardsmen echoed sharply in my ears.

It was a split second decision – jump and drown or stay and get beaten to death. Weighing my choices, I flung myself as far away from that dreadful ship as was physically possible for a man as malnourished and beaten as I (coming from a port town, I considered myself a fairly good swimmer, and my chances for survival were much greater out there than back in that disease ridden death trap).

Salty water poured into my mouth as I gasped at the bitter, icy cold of the wasters. Waves beat me from side to side, smashing me against the ship's hull. I coughed roughly, choking, then forced my aching, tired limbs to push and pull me through the waters, which was made all the more difficult by the shackles around my ankles.

I took as deep a breath as I could manage then dove deeper into the murk to escape the violent surface. I forced my way through blindly, hoping desperately that I would reach land before long.

My lungs begged for even a single tiny breath, but I dared not risk it. I assumed by now they'd already fired the alert cannon, but I would worry about that when the time came.

My thoughts began to blur as I felt my body losing what little strength it had possessed. Even keeping myself afloat was a struggle, and I knew I wouldn't last. In one last desperate attempt, I surged towards the surface, but to no avail.

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I awoke on some shore I couldn't even begin to identify, the Hulk nowhere in sight. This observation cheered me slightly, though I knew I couldn't be too far.

It also occurred to me that I had no idea of how much time had passed. If it had been too long, they would have captured me by now, but what if they were just around the corner or over the next hill?

I stumbled to my feet wearily as my muscles screamed in protest. I did my level best to ignore it; I couldn't risk staying in any one spot for very long.

But, the question, for you readers, remains: how did I come to be shipped of to a Hulk?

Well, I suppose you could say it all started three years ago…

(Imagine flashback transition of your choice here)

I was a blacksmith, and a pretty darn good one at that. I worked long and hard right beside my best friend, who I've known since before I could walk. We were quite a team, always making each other and the other workers laugh. We'd get into many a bad situation with our joking; I don't mind telling you, but nothing ever quite as serious as what happened on All Hallows Eve.

It was on that very sacred day as we sat and drank together in the comfort of his home that they came. The soldiers. We didn't suspect anything with the knocking, figuring it to be another guest come to join in the merriment, but when we opened the door to invite them in, as was only polite to do, oh, now, there was a surprise.

A criminal, they called him. A common varmint thief they'd come to cart away to the Hulk as soon as they could. Didn't even seem to realize I was there, really.

My friend, he looked positively terrified. He looked at me, pale as a ghost, I would say, and then back to the guards. "What did I do?" he asked nervously.

It was a sensible, logical question for anyone in his position, but a soldier stepped forward and struck him nonetheless. "We don't ask questions of our orders, and you don't ask questions about authority," he growled. "If we say you're a criminal, you'd do best to come peaceful like so we don't have to drag you."

My friend began to tremble. He turned to me. "What do I do, Kyle?" he asked quietly.

I blinked. "Why're you asking me?" I muttered, not to keen on the idea of the soldiers taking a notice of me.

"You're my best friend."

I honestly felt very touched. He was my best friend, too, and I knew I couldn't let us be separated like that. I hesitated. "Go with them for now," I advised slowly, "we don't want any trouble. I'll see what I can do from here."

He looked at me with the most helpless, horrified expression I've ever seen. I placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll get you out, I swear it."

But my words, the words of a worker, meant nothing to anyone. The middle class snorted and told me my friend would be better off in the Hulk anyway. The aristocracy didn't even _grace_ me with an answer; they all looked me like I was a jug of tar water they'd just been told they must down.

So, I tried a different tactic.

Being a blacksmith, I had easy access to all kinds of tools. I fashioned myself a set of lock picks and took a few files with which to break the iron I new would be fastened around his ankle.

Unfortunately, things didn't go quite as planed. I was caught before I even reached the lower decks, and locked up myself. It wasn't until after did I learn he'd died almost a week before. All that effort and then suffering for nothing!

(But anyway, back to the present.)

I wandered through the back parts of a town I couldn't name if my life depended on it. There was, luckily for me, no one around at the time.

It wasn't long before I'd reached an old cemetery by a church. It seemed almost deserted, and a perfect place to hide until they figured me for dead or forgot about me. Either way, I would be a free man again.

That was when I spotted him.

A little boy perched in front of a row of tombstones, apparently crying. Cold at the very least, for the way he shivered so.

"Hold your noise!" I cried, afraid someone would come to comfort him and spot me. "Keep still, you little devil, or I'll cut your throat!"

He fell silent immediately, staring at me with fear as though I were a monster. "Oh, don't cut my throat, sir," he begged. "Pray, don't do it, sir."

I looked around to try and see his mother. "Tell us your name! Quick!"

"Pip, sir," he replied shakily.

"Once more," I ordered. I was a little hard of hearing at the time, and figured I could read his lips if I tried hard enough. "Give it mouth."

"Pip." He corrected himself, "Pip, sir,"

"Show us where you live," I hissed. "Pint out the place."

He pointed to the village I had left only minutes before.

I contemplated my choices carefully, and then shook him by the ankles to get whatever he had hidden in his pockets. I set him back on the tombstone, snatching the bread greedily and wolfing it down.

"You young dog," I said after I'd finished, "what fat cheeks you ha' got. Darn me if I couldn't eat 'em. Now, lookee here. Where's your mother?" I looked around nervously again.

"There, sir," he said.

I felt a surge of fear rush through me at this statement. I wasn't about to go back to the Hulk after I'd had such a hard time of escaping.

I ran. I ran as hard and fast as I could, despite my lack of energy.

I heard it again. That 'there, sir', that phrase that struck such a strong fear in my heart. I half turned to see how close the woman was, and to gauge her speed and stamina to the best of my ability.

I felt a strange combination of confusion, relief, and understanding spill over me. I turned all the way and headed back to the child.

An orphan. I should have know, really, what with him standing there starin' at graves when a child his age could be working. I don't know what I was thinking.

I guess it was probably along the lines of 'an orphan couldn't possibly be that well clothed and fed.' Maybe I thought the mother had told him to stay while she ran a quick errand. The point was, there was no longer any danger of her rushing in to save her son.

_Also Georgiana, Wife of the Above._

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Author's Note: Riiiight,. Point is, I posted something. It's old... but I got 100 on it, so... that's good I suppose. I think it came from one random sentance I scribbled down in English. Which kinda turned into a story while I was supposed to be listening to the teacher. Which might be why I got a b on the final. Eh, I didn't really read the rest of the book either. Oh well.


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